


There is Little to Be Said for Faith in a Dying World

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Endgame didn’t happen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, I’m sorry, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker centric, Peter Parker is a Mess, Poor Peter Parker, Sad Peter Parker, Suicide Attempt, This Is Sad, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, will change povs potentially
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28841544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: The person who looks back at him doesn’t feel recognisable; dull, lifeless eyes that are devoid of all happiness stare unseeingly through the glass and his hair hangs limply around his face. His cheeks have hollowed out without him realising and he must not be eating enough because he can’t remember his collar bones ever being this prominent.He can’t bring himself to care.He can’t remember the last time he did.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

He’s gotten rather good at lying, Peter thinks, as he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

The person who looks back at him doesn’t feel recognisable; dull, lifeless eyes that are devoid of all happiness stare unseeingly through the glass and his hair hangs limply around his face. His cheeks have hollowed out without him realising and he must not be eating enough because he can’t remember his collar bones ever being this prominent. 

He can’t bring himself to care. 

He can’t remember the last time he did. 

Time...it’s a weird concept. Or, at least, Peter thinks so. It’s so vast and dark, winding around in tunnels and stretching out so that he can’t separate day from night. And time is nobody’s friend because for most people there is simply not enough of it. But for Peter Parker, he has far too much. 

Time is separated into two different sections; life and death. One is loved, the other feared. And yet he longs for the sweet embrace that he knows death will being. Because he is so sick of living, so tired of having to feel and think and breathe. 

He wants it all to end. 

The glass is partly steamed up, a few lone droplets of water trickling down the side as the heat from the shower begins to fade away. When he was younger he used to sit by the window in the kitchen with his knees on a chair so that he would be tall enough to see out of it. He and Uncle Ben would have...well, he used to call them ‘Rain Races.’ And they’d pick a droplet each and see who’s reached the bottom first. 

Peter would concentrate so hard, willing his to fall a little quicker, and he always won. He used to think that it was because he was so great at it. Now that he knows Uncle Ben let him win the novelty wears off. 

He wishes he were still a kid sometimes. Everything seemed to simple and open and  _free_.  Now he feels trapped; like there’s a weight tied around his ankle, dragging him down under the surface and no matter how hard he reaches upwards, claws in the direction of the light...he never reaches it. 

No matter how hard he reaches for the stars, they always seem to float away. 

It’s a wonder he hasn’t drowned yet. 

He still struggles sometimes, his fingers twitching upwards, and he thinks that maybe he’ll get there...maybe he can do it. But then it becomes laughable, ridiculous, and he wishes he hadn’t even started to get his hopes up because he knows it isn’t true. 

If it were true, he’d have done it by now. 

If it were true, he wouldn’t be stuck in this cycle. 

Peter looks down at his hands and he notices the bottle he’s holding. It’s some sort of medication, probably a few years old, and he doesn’t remember opening the cabinet. He realises it must have become accustomed to him by now. 

His hands are shaking and he can’t open the fucking lid because he’s got that weak feeling in his hands - like when you wake up in the middle of the night and no matter how hard you try the strength to clench your hands has gone. 

Peter feels like this all of the time. 

He manages to pop the lid off and he empties some of the little white pills into the palm of his hand. He imagines lifting them to his mouth, letting them tear his body apart and his heart rate slowing...

He sighs and it comes out sort of hitched, echoing in the tiled bathroom. He claps a hand to his mouth and prays that he’s not woken anybody up. Nobody comes, of course they don’t. They never do. They never realise, never ask if he’s okay. 

When he glances back up at the mirror he is surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears. He raises a hand to them in a sort of deranged fascination and wonders how he let it get to this point. 

And despite it all, he empties the pills back into the bottle and places it carefully back in its place. He knows his metabolism would empty his system of them too quickly anyway. 

He wonders vaguely if he could just shove them down his throat in handfuls and hope he chokes to death. 

He doesn’t try. Not yet. 

The hallway is pitch black and he creeps back down to his bedroom silently. His eyes are red and puffy and he can feel himself trembling and if he wakes anybody up he knows he will have to stand there awkwardly and explain what is going on. And his mind might be a complete mess but he knows he definitely does not want that. 

He lays in bed for hours later, eyes unfocused and fixed on the ceiling, and the wetness on his face is back and he doesn’t know  _why_.  He couldn’t say if he fell asleep anymore - the days and nights blend into one long, sleepless tunnel and he wanders along blindly with his arms no longer outstretched, no longer interested in finding his way out. He just lets himself crash into whatever is in his way and crawls on, preparing himself for the next collision with no intention of fixing himself up afterwards. 

~~~~~~~~

He can hear his phone ringing from somewhere next to him and he turns his head to let his eyes come to rest on his bedside table, where he can now see the phone and caller. 

It’s Ned. 

Peter sighs and it ripples through his entire body and he runs a hand over his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. He ignores the call and continues to lay half tangled up in his duvet for god knows how long. All he knows is that Ned doesn’t stop ringing him. He has half a mind to answer but his limbs feel like lead and as painful as it is to just lay there helplessly, he can’t move. 

On what could have been either the seventh or twenty-seventh piercing ring as his phone is bombarded with calls, he reaches over weakly. It occurred to him that maybe Ned was in trouble and needed his help and here he was, making a point to ignore him. 

But as he glances down at his screen he sees that sure, Ned rang him twice, but the rest of the calls had been from someone else. His finger hovers over the option to press ‘call back’, but the thought is knocked out of head as the same person rings him  again. 

He answers hastily, heart rate sky-rocketing, and takes a deep breath. 

“Hey, Mister Stark.” 

“Hey, kid,” Tony says into his ear. The sound is slightly muffled - as if he’s outside - and Peter thinks he can hear the odd sound of a car horn beeping. “I’ve told you to call me Tony a million times.” 

“Yeah, Tony. Sorry.” he says quietly, biting down on his lip. 

“You don’t have to apol - right, whatever.” Tony chuckles. There’s a thump and the sound of heavier footfalls, and he imagines that his mentor has hopped off of some stairs and is strolling along the pavements. 

“You okay, Pete?” he asks casually, and Peter nods stiffly before remembering he can’t see him. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Jesus, I was just being polite,” Tony laughs, and he wonders when the last time  _ he  _ laughed was. “Anyway, I was wondering if you were busy tonight? Are you free?” 

Peter feels his ears prick up and he raises himself up a little on his elbows, the first feeling of something even remotely similar to happiness fluttering in the sink hole in his chest. 

“No,” he says quickly into his phone, 

“No?” 

“I mean, no. I’m not busy.” He corrects, shaking his head in spite of himself. “Why?” 

“Me and Pepper feel like we haven’t seen you in ages. We keep meaning to ask you round but something always comes up. Plus, Morgan misses you.” 

Peter let’s a small smile flicker over his face and be leans back into his pillow, imagining Morgan asking where he’s been. It’s nice to know that there’s somebody who cares. 

He’s barely seen May this week and he’s half convinced she’s avoiding him. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. 

“Peter? You there?” 

“Yeah, yes,” he says hurriedly, afraid Tony will think better of his request and decide he doesn’t really want Peter there. He wouldn’t be too surprised if that happened. “That sounds great, I’d love that.” 

It’s strange; he  _ is  _ happy Mister Stark wants him there, he really is, but he can’t seem to make his voice sound enthusiastic. It seems strained and sort of forced but Tony appears not to notice and he lets out an internal sigh of relief. 

“Cool, good stuff.” Tony says, and Peter can hear his grin down the phone, “I’ll pick you up around two, yeah? And you can stay the night, or two nights, whatever you want.” 

“Yeah, that’d be...that’d be good. Thanks mister - I mean, Tony.” 

“‘Mister Tony’,” he snorts, and Peter can almost see him mocking him even from here. He wants to smile at the thought, but he can’t. “I can bring you home whenever you feel like it, for the record. Don’t feel like you have to stay because this old guy asked you.” 

“No, no, I do want to. I really want to.” Peter reassures him hastily, not wanting him to feel like he doesn’t care. 

“Well, see you later, kiddo.” 

“See you later.” 

It’s the first time in months that he’s felt anything other than sadness, and Peter decides he’s not going to stay in the house all day and ruin it himself. No doubt by the time the day is out he’ll be back to his now accustomed self, but despite the previous nights circumstances...he feels better than usual. 

Now, he isn’t entirely sure if that’s a good thing. 

After a particularly bad day, or week, or sometimes even month, he seems to come to a standstill. It’s like...it’s like time is frozen. And he doesn’t dip downwards, doesn’t slip further below the surface. And yet he still doesn’t try and make that climb upwards to where he knows help will be waiting. He’s too weak for that. 

Instead he balances precariously on the edge and it’s like trying to walk a tightrope. He knows that at any given moment he could fall, and he could keep falling for what might feel like forever, he knows this. But sometimes he can balance. Sometimes he thinks he an almost do it. 

But then, as always, the tiniest prod or the faintest nudge in the wrong direction reminds him that  _ no ,  _ _he can’t do it_. 

He’s too weak and too pathetic and everything is too much and he is sent plummeting back down into dark nothingness until he finally hits a ledge. And once be does, it isn’t reassuring. Because sure, now he has somewhere to ground himself and keep him upright but he knows he’s closer to the bottom than he is to the top. And he tells himself that at some point he’s going to have to hit the ground. 

Rock bottom. 

But he never seems to be able to find it. So he keeps tumbling downwards, clutching onto false hope and pretence, and imagining that day where he’ll be brave enough to swallow the pills. Or keep a firm hand on the rope, not step back off of that ledge, not put the blade down...

And on those days he smiles more. He smiles because he thinks it’s going to come to an end soon, that his pain will be over. So he smiles at May and he answers Ned’s calls. He patrols the streets and he doesn’t let anything go unnoticed. 

It never comes to an end. Even when he thinks he can do it, he can’t. 

He can’t. 

He can’t. 

He  _can’t._

He doesn’t know if today is like that. He’s happier than usual, that’s a given, but he has a feeling that it’s more to do with the fact that he’s going to be seeing Tony and Pepper and Morgan and he loves them all so much. He knows that he’s going to miss them when he’s gone. 

But it doesn’t  _ matter  _ because he can end things tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that and he doesn’t care for once. Because  _ today  _ is a good day, or the closest thing to it now.  Tomorrow doesn’t have to be. Probably won’t be. But he doesn’t care. 

He wanders into the kitchen where he finds May packing her lunch into a brown paper bag whilst simultaneously trying to wipe the counters clean. She looks up as he enters and offers him a brief smile, flicking hair out of her face. He feels bad for her. She spends everyday trying to reach out to him and he hides himself away instead and gives her smiles that she knows aren’t real. 

He’ll be less of a burden one day. He won’t take up too much room and let her spend money on food and essentials that he’s sure he could go without - even with his metabolism - and she won’t have to work extra hours and cover other people’s shifts. She’ll be better off without him. 

“Any plans, Peter?” she asks as he sits down at the counter, not making any effort to pour himself some cereal. It’s right there in front of him and be knows she’s left it out for him. But he doesn’t touch it. 

He feels weird eating in front of her when she struggles so much to provide it. It feels greedy and selfish of him, especially when she eats much less. He knows she doesn’t really expect him to have any plans - he hasn’t had any in ages, never mind on a Saturday. 

But instead he plasters a smile on his face and nods, watching as May’s eyes light up. 

“I’m staying over at Mister Stark’s.” he says, and May stops what she’s doing to look at him. 

“What, you’re staying the night?” 

Peter frowns a little. Should he not? Was he taking advantage of his offering? And then he reminds himself that  _no_ ,  Mister Stark wants him there. He rang him up with the sole intent of this and he isn’t going to make himself worry. 

“Yeah. He said I could.” he picks at the skin on his thumb as he speaks and purposely doesn’t make eye contact with his aunt. “He said, uh, he said I could stay for as long as I wanted.” 

May looks as if she wants to say something - maybe protest - but if she was did, then she kept it quiet. Instead she nods sort of disjointedly and picks up her paper bag. 

She stops before she leaves the door, glancing back over her shoulder. 

“Do you need a ride there? I’ll be back at three.” 

“No, it’s okay. Mister Stark said he’ll be here at two.” 

“Peter, it’s only gonna be an hour’s difference. Let me take you.” 

“But he’s already made the plans. I can’t just _ cancel  _ on him.” 

“It’s not - it’s not  ‘ _cancelling_ ’  on him. I just don’t want you to bother him. He’s a busy man.” 

“Yeah, I know that. But he said he’s gonna-“

“-Fine. It’s fine. Just...just text me when you want picking up in the morning.” 

Peter grimaces, knowing she isn’t going to like it, but he takes a deep breath. 

“Mister Stark said-“

“-Right. Of course he is.” 

There was an awkward moment of silence between them, full of so many unanswered questions. God, he’s making her life so miserable. 

“Well, I’ll see you...whenever, I guess.” 

He nods as she closes the door and he internally curses himself. Has he done something wrong? May seems...he’s not sure...annoyed? Yeah, that’s it. He doesn’t know when it got like that between them but lately he’s been realising he’s barely spent any time with her these past few months. He does try to, honestly, but it’s hard to do anything more than get out of bed most days. Combine that with school and Spider-Man and everything else...

It’s just so hard these days. 

And now he’s broken up things between him and the only fucking blood relative he has left. It’s his fault, it’s  _ always  _ his fault, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep pretending but he can’t let anyone know about this. They’ll say he’s weak, he’s pretending, he’s not fit to be a hero, and he can’t have that. No, not when Spider-Man is the only thing keeping him anything close to grounded. 

Two o’clock seems to roll around pretty quickly and Peter finds himself sat in the kitchen eagerly, waiting for the call he’ll get from Happy to tell him he’s outside. 

He knows Mister Stark said he would take him to his place but he doesn’t really expect him to come. Like May said, he’s a busy man. Come to think of it, he’s not even entirely sure why he didn’t let her take him. It was probably just an excuse to not have to talk about his feelings - he knows May’s been dying to get him to speak about them for months, but he hasn’t complied. 

He doesn’t see why he needs to. 

He’s counting down the minutes, checking his phone to make sure he’s not missed anyone’s calls every second. Two o’clock comes and passes and Peter frowns. Mister Stark is oddly specific when it comes to timing; he states a time and he arrives exactly then. Occasionally give or take a few. 

He doesn’t let this shake him though, and he continues to stare at the clock, glaring daggers into the big hand as it slowly moves into a zone dangerously close to three. 

He’s coming. 

Mister Stark is coming. 

May will be home soon and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to face her sympathetic eyes and ‘I told you so’ on the tip of her tongue. Because she was right, god-fucking-damnit! He  _ was  _ too busy for Peter. 

And maybe deep down, he’d known that Tony Stark meant more to him than he did to the hero but that didn’t mean it stung any less. He’d thought...he’d thought he loved him. He always told him that. That he was like a son to him. 

And yet he’s forgotten. 

He keeps waiting at the table - that table that has endured all of his emotions over the years. There’s been the sweet, silent happiness he felt as a younger child, warm in May’s embrace with no fear or numbness hanging in his minds eye. But that was followed by his rage after Ben’s death that tore at his insides and spilled over the edges and then finally, the sadness that trails its icy, bony fingers along his collar bone. It wraps itself around him like some sort of grotesque animal; digging its claws into his shoulders and forcing them to carry his fears until they slumped. 

He should have swallowed those pills last night. He should have done it there and then. But he didn’t. Because he’s a coward and he’s so,  so  weak it’s a wonder he’s not been forgotten about until now. Even Spider-Man can be forgotten easily enough. He’s not a real Avenger. He never will be 

He’s just a scrawny, messed up kid who put too much faith in a billionaire who didn’t really give a shit about him. 

_ Mister Stark forgot him... _


	2. Chapter 2

He sits on the roof for much longer than he intends too. 

He’d planned to cool down up here and then maybe wander the streets for the night, too embarrass to admit to May what had happened. 

Well. 

Peter shivers in the cold air and draws his knees up to his chest, his fingers long since turned numb. He looks at them in teary fascination; red raw compared to the now paleness of his hands and shaking violently. He’s bitten his nails right down to that stubby, almost painful lengthy that he promised Uncle Ben he’d never do. 

Ben used to have those bitten down nails and Peter has always secretly thought they looked rather ugly. He remembers one time that his uncle had caught him doing the same and he had laughed, shaking his head, and said that every time he bit one of his nails he had to give him a dollar. 

He hadn’t really given him the money if he did, it was just Uncle Ben being Uncle Ben. But it was a successful method nonetheless. 

He’d be so disappointed in him now. 

Peter sighs shakily and bites down on his lip to stop himself from crying. He thinks vaguely that it might be bleeding - he can taste that weird, metallic feeling that blood leaves in his mouth - and it stings a little bit he doesn’t really care. 

His head is pounding and there’s an empty ache in his heart. It’s not the same sort of ache that he gets when he wakes up in the morning, feeling like he’s being crushed by some invisible weight. He’s not being tied down. It’s more like... like the ache you feel when remember someone you’ve lost. But somebody that you lost a long time ago and it’s more of a dull pain that makes your gut wrench. That feeling is second nature to Peter now and even though he’s grown accustomed to it, it still  _hurts_. 

He lets a sob escape his chest, the first he’s let go since the afternoon, and immediately brings up a hand to swipe angrily at his eyes. No, he’s not going to cry over this. He doesn’t want to. 

But he can’t help it. 

The huge emptiness has begun to eat away at his chest again and he can’t separate his emotions properly. They’ve all sort of blended together; pain, anger, sadness - so stiffly entwined as one that their names ought to be tweaked to reflect the true story of their nature. 

Another tear rolls down his cheek and he lets himself lean forwards a little, starting at how far away the ground seems. If only his problems felt as small and as minuscule as the few people on the streets seemed. 

Maybe then he’d be okay. 

Maybe then he’d be happy. 

He wishes that he hadn’t woken up this morning. He’s tired; so, so tired in a way that he knows no amount of sleep will ever fix, and even as his back aches impossibly from where he’s sat he doesn’t ever want to move. 

No, not want. He can’t. He can’t find the energy to lift even a finger. He could stay outside and freeze to death for all he cares, and by god and he wishes he would. He wishes it would just hurry up. 

It’s not even a pretty sight he can see; it’s just the same old ugly city with too much pollution and far too many people willing to hurt others. Life has never been kind to him, he knows this, and he doesn’t see why it would be to anybody else. But life  _ is  _ kind to some people, that’s what he doesn’t understand. It doesn’t seem to discriminate; it chooses at random and forces its pressure onto some but leaves others wander freely. 

Those people don’t think things like he does. Those people live their lives fully because they fear the day they will eventually close their eyes one last time. 

Peter wants that day to come quickly. He can  _ make  _ that day come quickly. 

And even from a young age, Death had come creeping along his hallway and stood there like a shadow outside his door. Everybody he loved was taken by him at some point. 

Death stole them all from him. 

And he so desperately wants him to sweep him up too. 

He subconsciously lets one foot slide down the roof, his weight shifting a little. He could let go...it would be so easy...

These thoughts have been plaguing his mind for months now. The first time it happened, he shocked himself with the harshness of it and had been taken aback. He remembers that night he laid there awake with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could ignore them back then, pretend they weren’t his own thoughts, but deep down he knew they were just the start of something bigger.

How cruel life had been even as a young child - taking everything he loved away before he was old enough to truly appreciate it. And how cruel Death, for leaving him behind. 

These days the thoughts have become as natural to him as breathing and he knows this isn’t normal. He knows that none of the people he knows go about their daily lives like he does. He’s messed up and broken and such a burden. Everyone’s life would be easier if he were gone. And hadn’t that already been proven?

May was distanced from him - no longer knowing her nephew inside out like she did before. Ned still called, still acted like his best friend, but Peter knew that once he realised how fucked up he was that he’d leave too. Flash would probably just laugh. He’d be happy the day had finally come. 

And Mister Stark - fucking  _ Iron Man _ , of all people - certainly didn’t need him. Hadn’t he shown that today? There were plenty of interns he could hire, possibly even ones who could replace him as Spider-Man. And if not...well, it’s not like he’s a real Avenger anyway. 

He’s just a kid who wants to be with his family. 

And his family are all dead. 

He’s seriously thinking about it now, his breathing coming out in small bursts and he knows he’s on the verge of a panic attack but if he does this quickly enough then he’ll be able to avoid that all together. 

His hands shake where they’re pressing onto the tiles of the roof, the city lights suddenly too bright and too much and he wants nothing more than for everything to just  _stop_. 

Not for just a second. 

Not for an hour, or day or even a year. 

Forever. 

He wants to know nothing, to feel nothing, to  _ be _ nothing...and forever. 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, knowing that it’ll be easier if he can’t see how high up he is. He swings his other leg around and his shaky breath forms little clouds in the air as he looks around one last time, a choked sob bubbling up as he takes a deep breath. His heart is beating too quickly but that doesn’t matter because soon it will stop altogether and he knows this is going to hurt when he lets go but he’s sure it will be less painful than pretending to smile for another day. 

He leans forwards and he’s so close...so, so close but then-

“Woah, kid, be careful.”

Peter hears the heavy clanking of metal as it makes contact with the tiles behind him and he fights the urge to turn around. He does, however, straighten himself up and try to hide the shaking of his entire body, his jaw clenched so tightly that it hurts. 

“ You’re gonna fall if you keep doing that.”

_Yeah, that’s the point_ ,  he thinks bitterly. 

“Well, don’t act like you care now.” he spits out, his numbed fingers digging into the roof. He had wanted it to be sharp and spiteful, but instead he just sounds lost and alone. He swallows, letting his stony facade take over his face. He’s just glad that it’s dark and he hasn’t really cried yet. 

He’s silently willing Mister Stark to leave so he can just fucking jump and be done with the whole thing but he’s got a feeling he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Oh, so I miss one event and suddenly I don’t care?” Tony snaps, an edge of frustration seeping into his voice. But whatever spark there was seems to burn out and fizzle down to nothing more than a tired sigh. “Pete, come one? I’m sorry, okay?” 

There’s a shuffling noise and he feels Tony lower himself down next to him, feeling his posture tense up as he apparently realises how high up they’re sat. 

He’s not wearing the suit anymore. 

Good, it felt too much like he was being saved. 

“It’s not...it’s not just about today. You having called me in  _weeks_ ,  I can’t remember the last time we did anything about the internship and we’ve not worked on my suit for ages.” He swallows and ducks his head, not meeting his mentors eyes. He’s so fed up of feeling like he’s not good enough, that nobody cares. And he  _ knows  _ that this sadness isn’t normal. It shouldn’t be eating him up from the inside like it does, it shouldn’t be weighing him down and pinning his arms to his mattress so that it feels impossible to even sit up some days. 

He’s tired. He’s so  _ tired  _ and nobody ever realises. 

“Peter, you’ve not been out patrolling in weeks. I thought you were taking a break or something.” Tony says defensively, throwing up his hands. “But I’ve told you to drop in at any time. If you were feeling lonely or-or upset-“

“-But you don’t get it!” Peter pushes on. He raises a hand as if he’s about to slam it down on the tiles but instead just clenches his fist into a ball, resting his forehead against it. He turns his head so that he’s looking in the opposite direction to Tony and breathes out a shuddering sigh. 

“Don’t get what?” Tony says quietly, his voice almost lost in the wind. 

This could be his chance...he could get help. Tony would help him, he would. He knows this. But-

But  _ can  _ he be helped? 

That’s the big question, isn’t it? That’s the one that he always finds himself circling back to. It’s like...it’s like being stuck in a snow globe. All these people around him are shaking it, making it harder to focus. The snow begins to fall a little quicker, a little faster. It’s in his eyes and it chokes up his throat and it’s above him, below him, on the ground. And suddenly he is too. But when he stand up again, things begin to shake a little violently and he trips a little less gracefully and then it all comes crashing down into pieces. The glass dome above his head is too far out of his reach to escape from so the only other option is to break the glass. 

But when he does this, all hell will break loose. That snow that already falls at much too fast of a rate will pick up and create a storm, and one way or another it will pass. But will it pass with him safely on the other side, able to breathe again, or will he be swept away with it? Crushed under its powerful hand, as motionless and as lifeless as the world inside his snow globe. 

Because the blizzard removes the illusion from his eyes, and he can see everybody else outside. Does he deserve to be there? Can they see him? With the pretence gone he is left with what he can only assume is the truth, and he knows that the world is full of many exciting things to see, to touch, to experience. It has to be there because otherwise why would anybody want to live? But as the angry white flakes swirl around him he remembers that even if such a world exists, it is out of his reach. 

Like the glass above him. A much gentler way of escape, but impossible. 

And the truth he sees, is that he is completely and utterly alone. Yet at the same time he is surrounded by so many. So why is it that he feels so constantly separated from reality? Why do their smiles and laughs seem to hit a protective wall that he hasn’t put there himself and never get through to him? 

So will breaking the glass be worth it? Will the pain and stress and exhaustion that comes with the blizzard that inevitably arrives be worth it? 

Or will it be, when it passes, that the force creates an angry vortex and all he can see is the cold bleakness of a world that was neverdesigned for him? He can reach out now, just as he knows he always can, but will his hand just be swallowed up before it’s even gone a few inches? 

If he stops everything now - the pain, the hurt, the ache- will it save his eyes from the blindness of the future or will it just make everything ten times harder if he wakes up? 

And the difficult thing is that there isn’t even a voice that reminds him that it would be worth trying. Not trying to reach out, trying to end it all. There’s no disordered voices in his brain, it’s just his own. 

And his own self doesn’t  _know._

Where did he go wrong? Is God (and there isn’t a God, there isn’t any God. Because surely no one would allow him, or anyone, to suffer like this) angry at him? Or is he just another fucked up, messed up piece in a game that he has no control over? 

He doesn’t know if he can trust himself or anybody around him to catch him if he falls. 

So doesn’t that, in a way, provide him with an answer to that question?

If he doesn’t trust anybody to do that,  _ will  _ they do it? 

And truly, deep down, he knows that it does answer it. He can’t be helped. 

And so-

“-Nothing. It’s okay. I’ll get over it.” 

Tony clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and looks at him with so much pity that Peter ducks his head again, unsure of how he’s going to react. Half of him wants him to not believe him, to push him for more answers but the other half - the darker half that prods at his bruised mind in its most tender places - doesn’t want to be a burden and reminds him that he doesn’t  _ deserve  _ the help. 

Or the pity. 

Or the care. 

Or the  _anything_. 

He doesn’t deserve to be Spider-Man, to have a friend like Ned who’s always there, to have Iron Man sitting on a fucking roof next to him in the freezing cold because he’s only half afraid that some kid he picked up when nobody else wanted him is going to throw himself off at any given moment. 

Peter takes a deep breath, trying to stop his mind from screaming at him for just a moment. It’s like the voice inside his own head, the one everybody has, is turned up to it’s maximum volume and is just endlessly beating against his skull, the button stiff and rusted up so that he can’t turn it down. He can barely hear anybody else never mind attempt to make contact with them; it’s all drowned out and muffled, like he’s not really part of the world at all. 

He just stands on the outside, tapping defeatedly on the glass window that separates him from everybody that he loves. 

“Look,” Tony says after a pause. His voice is quiet and verging on strained and Peter knows he isn’t going to like where this is going. He reaches out a hand, almost as if he’s going to rest it on Peter’s shoulder, but instead jerks it away and scratches the back of his neck. Perhaps he thinks he’s going to shatter under his touch - and it’s true, he might - or maybe he’s remembering that Peter really is just some kid that he found. Or maybe his neck was just really fucking itchy and Peter should stop over thinking things because Tony’s talking again and he can barely hear him for his brain whirling around at a thousand miles per hour. 

“I hate to be the one to state what’s potentially the obvious...but it’s late, nobody’s around, I don’t even think May knows you’re up here-“ he swallows nervously, side-eyeing Peter for a moment before continuing, “-and you’re alone and you look really sad, and Peter, you’re sat on a roof in the middle of winter.” 

Peter knows he should respond, interact,  _anything_.  Maybe even the nod of his head. But for some reason he just can’t bring himself to do it. His head feels heavy, like it’s wrapped in bandages, and his throat is choking up as he stares fixated at the city below him. 

He just wants to let go. 

“Peter?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

Instead he screws his eyes up and clenches his fists into balls, finger nails ripping into the skin on his palms and he tries not to let the tears flow. There’s a ringing in his ears and he just wants Tony to fuck off, to go back to not caring, because this is so much worse.

He can practically feel the man’s eyes boring into his frame, already able to decipher his thoughts and feelings until he no longer has any secrets. He’s like an open book anyway, everybody sees what’s there for them to see. Because he doesn’t exactly have secrets; everything is right there on those open pages for the world to see. It’s just that nobody ever looks hard enough to realise. They just assume that they already know everything there is to know and continue with their bigger lives that don’t involve Peter. 

Which he should be fine with. He’s not that important. 

Only, he isn’t fine with it. 

That’s the problem. 

Or, well,  _ he’s  _ the problem. 

“Peter?” 

“Yes?” he says suddenly. He sits up a little straighter, wondering if he can perhaps steer the conversation away. He plasters a smile onto his face, turning his head so that he’s facing Tony again. “I mean, no, Mister Stark. Tony. I’m sorry, I most have zoned out a little but I’m fine. No need to worry. I’m sorry for snapping at you.” 

Tony stares at him with wide eyes for a moment, his lips parted a little into the shape of an ‘o’. He blinks slowly, looking between Peter and the city, and then narrows his eyes. 

“Why are you on the roof, Pete?” 

Peter swallows in a way that he hopes doesn’t immediately give everything up and tries to smile a little wider, a little brighter. It feels so forced to him considering he can count on one hand the number of times he’s smiled this month. 

“It has a nice view.” he tries, looking out ahead of him to prove his point. 

“Bullshit.” Tony says immediately, and Peter can feel himself becoming flustered. He takes a deep breath, his heart beating a little quicker than what’s perhaps normal, and tries again. 

“And it’s relaxing.” 

“It really isn’t.” Once again Tony pushes on, his face growing increasingly more concerned, and Peter begins to panic quite a lot internally. But it’s okay, no matter, he does this all the time. All he needs to do is clench his jaw and focus on anything but the conversation he’s having. There’s no need for panic because Tony  _ isn’t  _ going to find out. 

“It’s cold and uncomfortable and I really think you should go back inside. Why won’t you?” Tony carries on, this time turning fully so that he’s staring right at him, and Peter can’t help but feel like he’s being stared right through and into his soul. “Unless, of course, May doesn’t know you’re here - which, to be honest, I’d already figured out - and that means you’re obviously avoiding her for some reason. Which, unfortunately, I haven’t managed to gather yet. So why don’t you tell me?” 

Peter sighs loudly and drops his head back to the sky, looking at the stars and wishing he could be that far away from everybody. After a moment of heavy silence he straightens up and looks Tony directly in the eye. 

“Fine. I’ll go back in.” 

Anything to escape the unwantedconversation. 

As he begins to stand up, Tony grabs hold of his elbow to prevent him from leaving. Peter raises an eyebrow and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Yes?” 

“We’re not done here yet, kid.”

Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I think we are.” 

When Tony looks at him, unimpressed, he sighs again.“Look, you told me to go back in, so I am. I don’t see the problem. I’m doing what you told me to do.” 

“We’re talking about this tomorrow.” Tony answers simply, gaze unwavering. 

“Tomorrow?” 

“I’m assuming you packed your things already today?” 

Peter nods stiffly, not seeing his point. 

“Well then,” Tony answers simply, flashing him a smile that’s laced with so much pretence that Peter wants to curl up into a ball and cry, “I’ll be here at one o’clock sharp and you’re staying the next few days with me.” 

Peter looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. If Mister Stark really thinks he’ll just do whatever he wants after today then he definitely needs to reconsider. He knows he’s an arrogant person at times, but seriously. 

“Yeah, no I’m not doing that.” 

“Yeah, and I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you.” 

“You can’t just-“

“-Actually I can.” Tony interrupts, and Peter feels his blood boiling. “Because if you want to continue as Spider-Man then you’ll do what I say. And I’m your mentor, your internship is with me, and you haven’t been out patrolling in a while-“

“But that’s not-“

“- _So_ ,”  Tony says forcefully, holding a finger up to silence him, “if you would like to explain to me what’s going on and why that is - which, again, for the record isn’t actually up for debate - you’ll spend the next few days with me at the Avengers Tower. Because this-“, he points between Peter and the city, “-isn’t working, and I’m worried about you. I’m not sure you’re thinking or acting in your best self-interest and we can’t be doing with that.” 

“Spider-Man is the best thing in my life right now,” Peter says through gritted teeth. 

He doesn’t plead, he knows that will do him no favours, and instead stares intensely at Tony. And it’s true; Spider-Man  _ is  _ the best thing in his life. The only good thing. He’s just been so unable to do even the most simplest of tasks these last few weeks that being able to help anybody has seemed out of the picture. And anyway, the last time he went out he almost threw himself off of one of the buildings he was sat on. He caught himself at the last minute with one of his webs because he couldn’t stand the the thought of somebody finding him dead and still dressed as Spider-Man. 

Because surely they’d be some footage of him somewhere and if they knew that he fell on purpose...

He doesn’t care if people see Peter Parker as weak - he is - but he doesn’t want them to know Spider-Man is. Especially when he can be so easily replaced and nobody would ever know different. 

“I know it is, kiddo.” Tony says gently, and compared to his tone the statement seems so harsh. If he doesn’t go and spill his guts he’ll be stopped from maybe one of the only things keeping him alive. “That’s why I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m  _fine_.”  he snaps, clenching his fists in frustration. Tony notices this, of course he does, and raises an eyebrow pointedly. Peter lets them unfold with a sigh and looks away again. 

“ And I can believe you if you show me but for now, I’m not buying it.” 

Peter considers it. Can he spend the next few days pretending to be okay or will he just give himself away and loose everything? He’s quite sure it’s not going to end well but things are looking even worse if he doesn’t agree. And plus, there’s the whole deal with Spider-Man and he is  not  ready to loose him yet. 

“Fine.” he says resentfully, eying Mister Stark suspiciously. “Don’t be late.” 

Tony just smiles tiredly and Peter wishes more than anything that he’d jumped whilst he still had the chance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know this chapter took a little longer than I would have hoped it to but heyyy its here now (?)  
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments you guys left on my last chapter omggg they completely made my day   
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this complete ANGSTY chapter
> 
> <3333

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so there’s going to be 2 or 3 chapters, hopefully updated soon  
> But 
> 
> This is my first marvel fanfic! Honestly it’s taken me waaaay too long to get into this fandom I’m ashamed of myself but hey, I’m so glad I have done  
> IM SORRY I LIKE ANGST WAY TOO MUCH
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please leave me a comment? They honestly mean SO much and they make me so happy :)))  
> Feel free to give me any advice for anything too or if anything needs changing 
> 
> Thank you! Hope you’re all okay :)


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